Angels Descending, and Other Scary Tales
by Arisprite
Summary: Doctor Who AU/Sherlock. Sherlock and John are called in to check into disappearances at the Wester Drumlins house. John notices something strange about the angel statues there. Other scary stories here as well! No slash, rated T. Please R&R :
1. Chapter 1

A/N: In honour of Halloween! A scary fic, with more on the way. (There is a zombie plot bunny hopping around, and bugging my muse, thanks to AdidasandPie :P ) This is a crossover with Doctor Who, namely the episode Blink. You don't really need to have seem that to read this though.

Disclaimer: I never have, nor ever will own the Sherlock Holmes books, shows, movies, etc...other lucky people do. Like Stephen Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.

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Angels descending, bring from above,  
Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.  
~Fanny J. Crosby

Sherlock was bored.

Not to the extent where he would be shooting a smiley face into the walls of the flat, much to John's relief. He was more at the stage where he wandered around, frantically looking for something to keep his attention. Usually it was at this point where books and papers would be flung about the living room when they failed to hold his brain for more than ten seconds. This stage brought John annoyance, but no homicidal tendencies like the gun practice did.

At that very moment, John was somewhere between annoyed and amused at the way Sherlock was tearing through an old box of newspapers. He didn't know what interest old papers could bring to Sherlock since the events mentioned would have passed ages ago, but if Sherlock could read something out of them, the John was content to sip his coffee and let him do it.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long. Sherlock dumped out the box, and glared at it, probably wishing he could get away with setting the whole pile of newsprint on fire. He doubtless would have if John hadn't had been sitting there watching with a sharp eye. Sherlock humphed, and sat back on his heels.

"I don't think there is a term in existence that would express how bored I am." Sherlock mused out loud.

John shook his paper—today's and he wasn't letting Sherlock have it until he was done, thank you very much—and shrugged.

"Dramatic that."

Sherlock gave a histrionic sigh.

"John," The tone could almost be called a whine. John turned the page.

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

Sherlock groaned, and fell back to lie amongst the news, causes some to fly up, then rain down on him like some misshapen grey snow.

The silence stretched out, and John tried to enjoy it, but he couldn't help but feel that it was only a kind of calm before a storm.

"John, phone." Sherlock demanded suddenly.

John rolled his eyes. "Use yours."

"It's in my bedroom." Sherlock said in a tone that said _'obviously'._

John sighed, and muttered "And you can't get up and get it because…?" but he leaned forwards, and tossed his phone so that it landed on Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock caught it before it slid to the floor, opened it, and started texting. John went back to his paper and coffee. There was quiet for another two minutes before—

"John!"

John started, sending his paper flying, and coffee narrowly missing spilling into his lap. Sherlock was standing before him, looking at him urgently. John rubbed a hand over his face.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock grabbed his arms, and hauled him to his feet.

"Come on, John! Lestrade texted."

They were off in a whirlwind towards Scotland Yard, with John tonguing his burned mouth from gulping the rest of his coffee, and Sherlock refusing to tell him anything. Typical morning.

"All of them?" John lifted the photos of multiple types of cars, each one different. They were similar only in the manner in which they came to be found by the police, and currently parked under the garage.

DI Billy Shipton leaned forwards, looking at Sherlock and himself from across his desk.

"Yup, all the cars found with nobody inside, some still running even. There was no one around. They were all found outside the same house. Wester Drumlins.

Sherlock broke in.

"That house is abandoned, isn't it?" Shipton nodded, and Sherlock folded his hands in front of his mouth. "So… why were all these cars parking there?"

Sherlock and John pulled up in a cab in front of the old house, and John whistled to see the place. It was the definition of creepy haunted house. . The shutters were falling off, the gardens were all run over with weeds, and the paint peeled in a strange pattern. There was a cracked statue in the yard, an angel that looked like it was crying. John could see the part of the street where the last of the cars had stopped. It was a smaller car, police tape surrounding it. One of the doors was ajar. Sherlock was already sniffing around. John saw him a bit further ahead, face bent low towards the ground, and his little magnifier out. John couldn't imagine what he was seeing.

They both made their way towards the car, John taking a much more direct route than Sherlock, who was stopping every few feet, and looking at the gravel driveway.

"Find anything yet?" John asked. Sherlock barely glanced up, and did not answer. John sighed, and began his own examination of the car. It looked normal: coffee cup in the holder, coat on the passenger seat. The driver had been a woman. There was a tube of lipstick on the dashboard. Anything more was beyond him to figure out. He turned, and found Sherlock coming up behind him.

Sherlock glanced over the inside of the car.

"Woman, mid thirties, maybe forty. Professional photographer, you can see a folder of newly developed photographs, and a lens cap is just under the seat." He sniffed delicately. "You can just barely smell the developer fluid as well." Sherlock leaned into the car through the ajar door. "She didn't intend to stay away from her car long, left her coffee. Stone cold now," he said, dipping one finger in the opened cup. "She got out of the car, most likely to take a picture, you know photographers, see something old and unique, she can't resist. She walks over to the front garden," Sherlock was walking in the footsteps of the missing woman now. Then, he stops. "She stood here, and then…" He trailed off. John stepped up beside him.

"What is it?" John asked. Sherlock was frowning, looking bemused. An odd look for him, to be sure.

Sherlock side stepped into John, pushing him further away, and then bent down, studying the ground. He ran quick fingers over the grass, muttering to himself. John squatted down next to him.

"What's the matter?"

"She didn't move." Sherlock sat back, still glaring at the ground. John frowned.

"Okay, what?"

"She didn't move, she couldn't have. There are no marks on the ground anywhere around, except for where she came from," Sherlock gestured around the lawn, though whatever marks Sherlock was seeing were invisible to John. "What did she do, did she fly?" He looked up and around, as though he expected to see the woman floating in the air above them. "Nothing which she could grab on to, or climb up." Sherlock muttered.

"So what happened then?" John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head.

"I haven't the foggiest." His tone sounded slightly amazed.

After that amazing, and slightly disturbing statement, Sherlock shut up for a good twenty minutes, going over and over the ground around them. At one point John shifted his stance –his leg, though the limp was gone, still got achy occasionally –and Sherlock threw out a hand.

"No John!" He ordered. "Evidence!" It was his you-cannot-be-that-stupid tone. John pursed his lips, and folded his arms.

"You must have looked at that patch of ground fifty times by now, Sherlock." John finally said, after another few minutes. Sherlock thoroughly ignored him.

John sighed, and glanced around the perfectly ordinary, if slightly creepy garden. So the house was old. It wasn't any different from any of the other run down houses across the country.

_I mean seriously. What's so great about this __house that people would stop to get out here? There's a falling down gate, and dilapidated house, and a weedy garden—_

_Hold on. Did that statue just move?_

John looked again, blinking a bit to clear his eyes. For a moment it seemed like the statue of the angel, the one that looked like it was crying had been a few feet closer to them. Now looking at it, John could see that it was where it'd been when they drove up.

He shook his head. This funny old life was starting to get to him.

Sherlock meanwhile, had finished examining the ground, and was brushing the dirt off his expensive trousers.

"Come along John." He then said, heading in towards the house. They climbed the iron gate, a bit less than gracefully in John's case, and walked up to the front door. It pushed open with a creak.

Sherlock wandered around, running his finger over various surfaces, and examining things with his little slider magnifying glass.

John followed after him, keeping a lookout, as was habit when Sherlock was caught up in his thoughts. It made John wonder how Sherlock had managed for so long to avoid walking directly in front of a bus.

Inside the house was just as he'd expected it to be from the outside; dusty, old and falling apart. And yet…

There was a strange chill in the air, and John had that feeling of hostile eyes on the back of his neck, making the fine hairs there stand on end. John unconsciously began breathing in a steady, quiet pattern; tensed, yet relaxed, waiting for an ambush. Sherlock turned to him.

"John?" He'd heard the change in John's breathing, and took it to mean a threat.

"I dunno." John murmured back. "Something's here, but—" But John hadn't heard anything else in the house but them. The noise of any other living thing would certainly have carried through the wooden floor boards. "Stay sharp." John finally answered. Sherlock snorted, and gave him a look that said _don't I always?._

They made their way through the dining room. John got a start at their own movement in a cracked mirror leaned against the opposite wall, but other then that, the room was empty.

Sherlock examined the far wall, while John circled around a grounded chandelier, trying to figure out why he was so jumpy. There had to be something. He didn't just get nervous. Not from something as everyday as a run down mansion. Gun in his face, a Semtax vest? Sure, but not a supposedly "haunted" house.

There was a large open window looking out into the yard—a different garden than the one they'd been in before, but it had the same kind of statue. A weeping angel. John furrowed his brow. He really didn't care for whoever was the decorator in here.

Sherlock 'ah'ed, and John turned to looked at whatever he'd discovered. He was reaching up the wall, fingering a loose corner of the wallpaper. John could see a smudge in black underneath it, almost like the top of a letter B. John guessed Sherlock was carefully trying to peel it back.

He glanced behind him once more—checking perimeters—and froze. The statue was different. Now instead of standing with both hands over its eyes, one was extended forwards, the other forearm draped over its face. The extended arm's fingers were clawed, reaching towards him.

"Sherlock." John said.

"What?" Sherlock hadn't turned around, still peeling.

"_Sherlock."_ Johns voice was still low, but insistent. He didn't take his eyes off the statue.

"What is it?" Sherlock turned now, and was greeted with the strange sight of John staring down a garden decoration. "Erm, John? What are—" John cut him off.

"It's moved. I saw it." Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then at the statue. It did look slightly menacing for an angel, but then, there was no accounting for taste.

"John, it's just a statue." Sherlock turned away, and moved back to the paper, tearing off more of the B. John frowned. He knew what he'd seen, or thought he'd seen. His instincts hadn't led him astray before. But he was playing chicken with a statue for heavens sake! He shook his head, feeling foolish, and glanced back towards Sherlock.

Then, movement and a flutter of what sounded like wings.

John turned back immediately, and came face to face with the angel. Its eyes were open now, face distorted and elongated to make a terrible, wide open mouth. Its tongue poked out from sharpened teeth, hands with nails inches long reached for his face. John was frozen, breathing quickly. That. Was. Impossible.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock whipped round at John's alarmed tone, and then his eyes widened. The statue, which had previously been in the garden tens of feet away, was now standing directly in front of John, grabbing for him.

Sherlock rushed forwards, then stopped. How do you fight a stone opponent? How does a stone opponent fight back for that matter? This was defying all laws of nature, the impossibility was pounding against Sherlock's brain, but more pressing was the stone claws inches from John's face.

Sherlock gripped John's shoulders, and dragged him backwards. John was stiff in his arms.

"Don't take your eyes off it." John said, as he stepped backwards with Sherlock. Sherlock complied, feeling backwards with his heels until they were a good distance away. John slowly extricated himself from Sherlock's grip, and then they were standing, staring at an unmoving stone angel.

This was ridiculous. John felt an almost hysterical laugh bubble up, but it died when he looked at the face of the statue. The menace was rolling off it.

Sherlock gripped his arm beside him.

"What is it?" John whispered, without turning his head.

"There's another one." Sherlock murmured. "What in the hell are these things? This _can't_ happen!"

"I dunno, Sherlock. Maybe the statues have it out for us. Have you got your eyes on the other one? They don't seem to move when we're looking at them."

"Yeah, I've got it. Blink one eye at a time."

John did so, feeling the gritty feeling that had been threatening to make him blink dissipate.

"What do we do now?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't say anything. "You're the detective!" John hissed at him when he didn't answer.

"I've never face an enemy made of stone, John. This isn't exactly my area of expertise." Sherlock whispered back harshly.

"Think of _something!_"

"We've got to get out of the house. These…creatures, these statues. They've got to be what's ….I don't know, killing? Taking? All the missing people. They come here, and are attacked by angels of stone."

John nodded.

The angel in front of him still hadn't moved, and he assumed Sherlock's hadn't either. The problem was getting outside without the statues getting them too.

Then, there was a flutter of noise behind them. Sherlock grabbed his arm again.

"It's another one. I can see both now."

"Keep looking at them." John said.

"I'm not going to stop, am I?" Sherlock answered.

John was trying to remember the lay out of the room behind them. If they could get to where one person could see all three (and hopefully there aren't anymore!) then that person could lead the other out backwards, without taking their eyes off the statues.

"Sherlock, I'm stepping backwards now. Going to try and get them all in my sight." Sherlock grunted his assent, and John took a deep breath. He slid his feet backwards, Sherlock moved with him. They moved towards where the door was supposed to be.

Then John was lurched back, a startled gasp tearing from his throat as his feet got tangled with something. Sherlock's grip on John's wrist only served to bring him down as well. They both feel with a bump, unharmed, but with the impact their eyes instinctively closed in a blink.

John tore his eyes open, scrambling back, tugging Sherlock with him. Four angels (four now?) encircled them; mouths open, arms outstretched, and eyes evil and glaring at them. Sherlock and John both pulled, and scuttled backwards, half on their feet, until their backs impacted a wall.

They stared, wide-eyed at the four statues. They hadn't moved again, but that was almost worse. John never saw it.

Both of them were breathing heavily. They sat for a moment, gaining some sort of balance, and feeling better for having a wall at their backs.

Sherlock swallowed, and then spoke.

"Keep looking at them. I'm going to find the way out." He got up slowly. John followed his movements with his ears, still not looking away from the angels.

"Where are you going?" John tried to keep nervousness away from his voice. Okay, Semtax in his clothing accessories he could deal with…moving, menacing statue angels were another matter entirely.

"The front door." Sherlock said, almost brightly. "I want to make sure the path is clear for when we run for it."

"Is that the plan then?" John asked, slightly hysterical. Sherlock touched the top of his head briefly.

"Stay calm. I'll be right back."

John listened as Sherlock crept down the hallway, towards the door. His eyes were watering, but he only dared wink alternately. He didn't want to find out what these…_things_ could actually do to them. Sherlock's exclamation of relief sounded from down the hall, and John breathed out quickly.

"John," Sherlock called. "The door's open."

Sherlock came up, and helped John to his feet. "I'll watch, just lead."

John kept a hold of Sherlock's arm as he slowly turned his eyes from the angels and towards the path to safety, namely the outside. If they could just reach the street…

There was no flutter of movement, so Sherlock still had them pinned under his gaze. John took a breath.

"Don't blink." He told Sherlock, and took a step forwards. Sherlock snorted, and stepped backwards with him.

"I won't."

So, step by step, John led Sherlock out of the Wester Drumlins house. Once they reached the front door, they didn't take much motivation to start running for the gate. If their climb was a little panicked, and their landing on the other side again less than graceful (this time in Sherlock's case) neither would admit it.

As far as what was actually in the Wester Drumlins house that afternoon, Sherlock and John would never find out. In fact, they both rather refuse to mention it. But if one of them passes a statue of a weeping angel, you'll notice that neither one will blink.

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A/N: *shudder* I scared myself writing this! Yikes! Tell me what you thought of it?


	2. Chapter 2

A/N 2: Update, I'm adding this to my scary stories collection. Not because it's particularly scary, but because it's just got an element of the supernatural, and I like it :)

A/N: This tiny snippit jumped into my head as soon as I laid down to go to sleep. Of course I had to jump up and write it, and now I'm posting it in the middle of the night with no work done on it at all. For that I apologize, I just had to get this down and out there. Sorry, hope it's all right to read anyway.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

Neither man saw the crack in the wall in their sitting room that day. The place was 221B Baker Street, and the year was 1891.

Professor Moriarty, a mathematician and criminal mastermind carried on in his little schemes, silently running the county's underworld but amounting to nothing more. He often thought that if only he he'd had someone to challenge him. He could have done so much more.

Mycroft Holmes, a man so important to the government that his very existence was erased after his death, occasionally felt a pang of sadness from some place he couldn't quite reach. It was as if he'd lost someone, and didn't remember.

Inspector Lestrade often runs his hands though his hair, feeling overwhelmed with the cases that no one could unravel. He knew that so many criminals remained out of their reach, simply for being cleverer than Scotland Yard. He wished there was someone else cleverer than they. He then would put on his hat, and sigh. There was no such person.

Mrs. Hudson frowns, and her eyes tear up when she looks at her empty lodging rooms. She often thinks she should find someone to fill that space, but she never can bring herself to put out the notice. She dreams of boys of her own, keeping her up at night, but always there to protect her.

Time has a way of reasserting itself.

The year was 2010, and two men were moving into 221B Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson saw the two on her doorstep, and smiled. Finally the hole in her heart felt right, filled with the joy and misadventures of her boys.

DI Lestrade goes to the consulting detective each time there is a case they can't figure out. He doesn't like having to swallow his pride to ask for help, but it's a relief knowing that if Scotland Yard can't get the bad guy, there is a man who probably can.

Mycroft Holmes sighs with exasperation as he watches his brother and his new flat mate walk away, but he can't help thinking that before now, he hadn't heard Sherlock laugh in a long time.

Jim Moriarty smiles. There is finally someone to challenge him.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

A/N: Please tell me what you think, and if there are any glaring errors that my midnight brain didn't catch? Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Tiny zombie ficlet, prompted by AdidasandPie, and sort of inspired by The Corpse Bride movie. More cracky than anything else. Sorry. No slash.

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"Sherlock, you went upstairs. Again?" John sounded exasperated, and vaguely disgusted. John rubbed his hand along his skull. Sherlock held a live cat in his hands. _An actual living cat!_ The cat looked quite distressed, its hair stood on end, but that likely wasn't anything to do with whatever Sherlock planned to do to the cat, but because of the place it was in.

Sherlock shrugged, and tightened his grip on the cat, which was clawing, trying to get away. Those claw marks in Sherlock's sallow skin wouldn't fade, John hoped he realized.

"Obviously." Sherlock deigned to answer. He moved over to the table, walking stiffly.

"What were you doing up there anyway?" John asked, really not sure if he wanted to know. He scratched at the hole the gunshot left through his shoulder, feeling his cold clavicle. Sherlock shrugged his boney shoulders.

"Experimenting. It's so fun to make them scream." His hollowed out cheeks curved in pleasure. John rolled his eyes.

"Please don't tell me you were chasing them again? Your head was attached, I hope?"

Sherlock's almost innocent silence was telling.

John took a difference line of questioning. "And what in the afterlife possessed you to bring back a _live_ cat?"

"It's boring being dead." Sherlock's voice was almost a whine. His tattered dressing gown fluttered about his skeletal knees, and he flopped down on their sofa, a puff of dust floating out from his bone rattling landing. The cat struggled against his arms, which he now had folded against his chest, and finally succeeded in jumping out. The tabby high tailed it out of the room, hissing its curses at the dead detective.

"He'll find his way out." Sherlock said, like it was the greatest disappointment in the world. "The living always do."


End file.
